


Night of the Undead

by a-cumberbatch-of-cookies (tishy19)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tishy19/pseuds/a-cumberbatch-of-cookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson is left working overtime one evening when he receives an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of the Undead

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Sherlock Mini-Bang 2013 challenge. Story by a-cumberbatch-of-cookies, art by imrisah. It was written and artwork was started before the minisode was released, so please ignore the that while reading this.

Anderson nudged his protective goggles higher on his nose with his forearm. His hands were busy adding a small amount of phenolphthalein to a test tube, which was followed quickly by a few drops of hydrogen peroxide. After a few seconds the liquids in the test tube began to change, the color fading from a milky white to a light pink hue. He gave a satisfied grunt and after gently placing the tube in a holder, turned to his notes.

He was alone in the lab, finishing up some cases that had come down at the last minute. The tech that had handed off the files to him received a fair amount of grumbles and glares, but in the end Anderson was still stuck spending his evening amongst blood samples and DNA tests.

The soft scratch of his pen across paper was suddenly overwhelmed by a low moaning sound. Anderson froze and then slowly lifted his head to look around the lab. “Hello?” he asked the room. With the bright lights overhead, no corner of the lab was left in shadow, but still he saw no source for the noise. He waited, breath held, listening for anything but when nothing came, he frowned, muttered to himself about decades-old heating systems and returned to his notes.

There’s another slow, echoing moan and this time Anderson dropped his pen and stood quickly from his stool. “Who’s there?” he called loudly, eyes darting over the lab wildly.

But, again, no answer was forthcoming.

Anderson let out a long shaky breath and rubbed his eyes. Maybe now was a good time to pack up and head home. If the case was so bloody important they could learn to get their orders down faster.

With a nod to himself, Anderson starting shuffling his notes and test print outs into some semblance of order and started to clean and store his equipment.

As he stood at the sink, cleaning out test tubes and pipettes there was another noise, but this time instead of a moan, there was a rhythmic squeak, that sounded almost familiar. Anderson swallowed thickly, eyes widening as the noise grew louder. He turned his head slowly to peer over his shoulder.

He watched in horror as an empty stool slide out from behind a table, its squeaking wheel easily remembered as something he’d heard for months and eventually learned to ignore. As the stool wheeled across the small opening, he turned bodily and watched it slowly disappear behind the next table.

Right, well, the washing up could wait till morning.

With shaking hands, Anderson fumbled behind himself to turn off the taps, leaving his equipment in the sink. His eyes continued to dart over the lab, never stopping for too long on any spot. With quick steps, Anderson moved back to his table and grabbed his papers. He shoved them without thought into his bag, ignoring the pens and pencils that rolled off and dropped to the floor.

“Aaannderrrsssooonnnnn,” a deep gravelly voice moaned.

With a yelp, Anderson’s hands tightened on his bag and he spun around to confront the empty lab again. “This isn’t funny!” he yelled, but winced at the obvious quiver to his voice. “I could report you for this!”

“Aaannndeerrssoooonnn,” the nothing repeated, only this time it sounded louder, closer.

He tried to step back, but the table blocked him. “I’ll see that you’re sacked,” Anderson cried, his whole body shaking. He took a step towards the door, his back sliding along the edge of the table. “This is harassment,” he squeaked.

Suddenly all the lights in the lab began to flicker, smothering darkness flashing over him. Anderson made a break for the door, shoes slapping loudly against the tiled floor. He grabbed the door handle and gave a powerful yank but it wouldn’t open. “No,” he whispered and dropped his bag to grasp the handle with both hands. This door was never locked from inside. He pulled frantically, again and again, but the door remained shut. “No!”

The lights flickered again, the bouts of darkness lasting longer and longer.

Anderson flipped around and pressed his back to the door. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Stop it!”

The moan echoed around him, growing louder. His named was called again and again, only now it transformed into a loud cackling laugh. The deep voice was overwhelming, assaulting him from every angle.

“STOP IT!” Anderson screamed.

And it did.

The lab was silent and dark. Besides the small line of light at the bottom edge of the door, Anderson couldn’t see a thing. With the moans and laughter gone, the quick thumping of his heart sounded like gunfire. He pressed his back harder against the door. The longer the silence went on, the more Anderson shook. Anything could be happening in the darkness. Someone, or something, could be creeping up on him right now.

“H-hello?” he whimpered.

Then with a crash like thunder, every bulb in the lab bloomed with light. Voicing a short cry, Anderson tried to cover his eyes, his pupils blinded.

“Anderson.”

He froze.

That voice, it couldn’t be.

He was dead.

With a loud gulp, Anderson lowered his hand and stared at the man who stood in the center of the lab.

“Oh my god,” Anderson whispered.

Sherlock Holmes, a man who’d been dead and buried for more then a year, stared back at him.

Anderson’s knees threatened to drop him to the ground.

Sherlock seemed to glow; a white sheen covered him from head to toe. A light cloud of smoke billowed out from behind him, enveloping Sherlock like a second coat. But his eyes, and Anderson shivered as he looked up, Sherlock’s eyes were devoid of any color, unblinking and emotionless.

Anderson’s mouth hung open as Sherlock took a towering step towards him. “You’re dead.” Sherlock took another step. “You’re dead,” Anderson repeated a bit louder, as if he could shout the dead man back into his grave.

Sherlock halted, stopping a few feet from where Anderson was practically adhered to the door. The specter stood motionless, his solid white eyes directed entirely at Anderson. Then, ever so slowly, his lips parted as his mouth curled up into a smile, and Anderson gasped, eyes opening as wide as possible, because Sherlock’s grin was now filled with teeth as sharp as a knife.

Anderson shrieked, hands flailing in all directions as he turned and grabbed the door’s handle and with all his strength, wretched the damn thing open and sprinted down the long hallway, his shouts and cries growing softer as he fled.

In the lab, Sherlock continued to stare as the lab’s door automatically swung shut, cutting the last of Anderson’s screams short.

He continued to grin at the door as a high pitched giggling filled the room.

“Oh my god,” John gasped, tears already welling up in his eyes as he slide out of his hiding space. “I can’t breathe.”

Sherlock’s deep laugh joined John’s as he moved towards his flat mate, gently pulling the false fangs from his teeth. “I will admit, I didn’t think it would go so smoothly.”

John smiled at his not-quite-dead friend. “You were questioning my applied knowledge of all things horror? I did tell you how many times I saw Halloween in theaters, right?”

Sighing heavily, Sherlock gave his mop of curls a good shake, excess flour falling from his locks. “13.”

“That’s right 13,” John boasted proudly. He pulled a small case out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. “Wash your hands first.”

After giving John a quick nod, Sherlock walked over to the sink Anderson had abandoned his equipment in and quickly scrubbed the flour off his hands. “And you’re quite certain this will all wash off?”

Rolling his eyes, John tracked down the possessed stool and cut the nigh invisible fishing line from where it was tied around the arm. “Yes, your precious coat will be fine.” He looked back just in time to watch Sherlock remove the white, semi opaque contact lenses from his eyes and gingerly deposit them into the case. “How long until he brings security back here, ya reckon?”

Sherlock was now pulling a hidden speaker from atop one of the many cabinets that lined the lab’s wall. “We should have another five to seven minutes to gather all evidence of our little ‘haunting’ before Anderson is able to talk anyone into investigating the lab.”

John hum in acknowledgment as he grabbed the extra lights scattered throughout the lab. “And I can’t talk you out of the next bit?”

Sherlock straightened from where he was removing the mini smoke machine that was attached to the back of his coat. “John, not only was she a constant thorn in my side when alive, but she was instrumental in perpetuating the idea of my deceit.”

“Yeah, but,” and John rubbed the back of his neck, “Sally was just doing her job on that bit. I mean, even Lestrade was duped for awhile.”

Sherlock remained quiet and he bagged all the lights and the rest of their equipment. Not until the bag was slung over his shoulder did he look at John. “She called you tiny once.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Sherlock nodded. “The Osterman case, when you couldn’t reach that book on the top shelf in the man’s library. She commented on your diminutive stature to Anderson.”

He held back a smile in triumph as he watched John’s nostrils flare and his hands clench into fists.

“Alright, let’s move it. We’re gonna have to take the tube ‘cause no cab will pick you up like that.” John turned on the spot and stalked out of the lab, muttering to himself, “Call me fucking tiny, we’ll see who’s tiny when you’re shrieking like a banshee.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop his smile this time as he followed John out the door, flicking the lights off as they left.

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Bonus:


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